


He Hit The Road (But The Road Hit Back)

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (for once), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre knows all, Enjolras is an endless source of amusement to his friends, Fluff, Happy Ending, Jehan laughs at your idea of blood and gore, Joly doesn't think that Enjorlas is ill, M/M, generic modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras does not miss Grantaire.</p>
<p>That would be ridiculous.</p>
<p>It’s simply that the flat is quiet in Grantaire’s absence, even though he only left that morning and Enjolras isn’t actually sure if he could pinpoint the moment when Grantaire’s presence in his home became the norm. They’d not discussed it; they’d not sat down over mugs of coffee one morning and planned to move in together, it just appeared that Grantaire spent more of his time at Enjolras’ flat than his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Hit The Road (But The Road Hit Back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BreathingSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreathingSpace/gifts).



> For Annabel's birthday I asked if there was anything she wanted and was told a modern AU with _loads and loads of fluff and no death and they live happily_. Shock horror I managed not to kill anyone, injure them or even make anyone too sad, so I think I hopefully achieved what I set out to write.
> 
> Happy birthday m'dear!
> 
> (Title from the Scouting For Girls' "The Airplane Song" because, well, why ever not? I have no shame.)

Enjolras does not miss Grantaire.

That would be ridiculous.

It’s simply that the flat is quiet in Grantaire’s absence, even though he only left that morning and Enjolras isn’t actually sure if he could pinpoint the moment when Grantaire’s presence in his home became the norm. They’d not discussed it; they’d not sat down over mugs of coffee one morning and planned to move in together, it just appeared that Grantaire spent more of his time at Enjolras’ flat than his own.

It doesn’t mean anything.

They’re friends -if that- who fuck. And share a bed. And make each other cups of coffee in the early hours of the morning, and reheat them once they’ve gone cold, and wipe the paint off each other’s faces. They’re not ‘facebook’ official. They’re not _dating_. 

And Enjolras can deal with that. He understands it. 

He also understands that the flat is empty without Grantaire’s unsteady presence, and if he’s wearing one of Grantaire’s abandoned and paint splattered t-shirt’s to bed then it is only because the fabric is soft and the room is cold.

That morning Grantaire had opened one of the smaller windows of Enjolras’ bedroom, pre-emptively, so that when Enjolras repeats that he’d rather Grantaire didn’t smoke inside the house Grantaire can smile, tapping the cigarette against the frame and say that he’s not technically smoking inside now is he?

Enjolras had rolled his eyes, huffing and had turned to take a shower, to wash off the indulgences of the morning, and when he’d returned Grantaire had turned from the window speaking animatedly into his mobile, still stark naked.

For a second Enjolras had been taken aback, not knowing that Grantaire could speak French, let alone fluently, but the evidence was before him, and he tightened the dressing gown around him, listening.

Grantaire had watched Enjolras watching him, and had smiled, sharp and cat-like, and Enjolras waited.

Once the phone call had abated Grantaire had risen, and the twinkle in his eyes shone as he looked at Enjolras.

“I assume you understood that?”

Enjolras had nodded.

“I’ve got family in France, and it’s my Great Aunt’s ninety-ninth birthday coming up, so we’re celebrating. My flight’s this afternoon. I’m back on Saturday, I think.”

Enjolras had nodded again, it hadn’t been any of his business, Grantaire was free to come and go as he wished without consulting him, of course he was. However his smile froze after Grantaire brushed past him to take his own shower.

He hadn’t dropped Grantaire off at the airport, hadn’t even offered to go with him, and instead he’d tucked his chin into Grantaire’s shoulder in lieu of a kiss before Grantaire had left his apartment to go back to his own shared flat. Grantaire’s hair was still damp from the shower, and smelt of Enjolras’ conditioner.

Now the day has drawn in, lonely and dark and the window was still open. And if Enjolras reaches out for a warm figure in his bed, it’s just because it’s cold because Grantaire likes to leave the windows open when he sleeps and Enjolras has become accustomed to the chill.

Four days isn’t long at all, and it’s closer to three now anyway.

No, Enjolras does not miss Grantaire.

Much.

*

Enjolras’ fingers are numb from the cold as he raps on the wood of Jehan’s door. 

He’d never previously accepted Jehan’s offer of a private ear to talk to should he ever need it, but after reaching the junction that would have taken him to his own empty flat he’d only hesitated momentarily before pulling in towards Jehan’s perpetually cheerful home.

It had only taken a moment of knocking on the crisp white door – so unlike Jehan- until the man himself had pulled the door open with an open, if hesitant smile on his face.

Enjolras hadn’t thought of what he’d say to explain his presence to Jehan, whose surprise was evident on his expression, but Jehan hadn’t needed an explanation, and had seized Enjolras by the wrist, in a grip that should have surprised Enjolras but didn’t, and pushed him towards one of the spare armchairs.

Jehan still hadn’t spoken as he’d filled the kettle and all but danced around the tiny flat, pushing a mug of steaming tea into Enjolras’ hands and Enjolras found his eye drawn to the doily resting on top of the television. The white lace contrasting with the apparent evisceration taking place on screen.

Jehan tucked his feet under him as he folded himself into the chair opposite Enjolras and turned to face the screen.

The dark hues of murder and back alleys are being played out on Jehan’s small television screen and Enjolras watches, in lieu of conversation and explanation. Enjolras doesn’t quite know what he would want to say to Jehan anyway. He couldn’t quite explain why he’d come to Jehan’s home this evening, instead of returning to his own. So instead he sips his tea and watches the violent, bloody fate befall the characters that Jehan had been watching before Enjolras had interrupted.

Eventually Enjolras has to turn from the program before him, unwilling to look at the unnecessary blood running down the streets and unknowing of the character motivations, instead he faces Jehan whose eyes are still glued to the screen for the few minutes left until the final credits roll.

Jehan isn’t scared of anything.

Eventually Jehan flicks the television into blackness and turns to Enjolras with his wide eyes questioning, and Enjolras feels as though he should look away from Jehan’s gaze. He doesn’t. But he waits for Jehan to question him.

“Are you happy Enjolras?”

It wasn’t what Enjolras had expected to be asked of him, and the question takes him somewhat by surprise, he is content with his work, glad of his friends and pleased with his life. 

And he nods.

Jehan continues to look at him, head cocked on his shoulder, with his ginger curls framing his face like an oil painting. Enjolras is not a poetic man, but Jehan’s poetry is infectious and it would be impolite, even within his own head, to regard Jehan clinically. But Jehan remain quiet, and while his fingers play against the china mug in his hands he ever looks away from Enjolras, sometimes his jacket, sometimes his own fingers interlaced together, sometimes at his eyes, but he doesn’t look away from Enjolras.

Jehan is able to dissect the emotions of his friends as easily as Joly could diagnose or Enjolras could pontificate and Enjolras watches as his words and actions are exposed and analysed by Jehan’s clever eyes.

Subconsciously he realises that this is why he came to Jehan, instead of returning to his own flat. He wants someone else to understand, even if he doesn’t.

Jehan smiles.

“Enjolras?”

And Enjolras returns the smile, feeling the weight lifting from his shoulders. He hadn’t even known that weight had settled over him until Jehan spirited it away.

“You’re always welcome here Enjolras, I like your company. You needn’t feel alone.”

“I know. Thank you, I don’t know what any of us would do without you Jehan.”

Jehan’s laugh was soft, and kind and Enjolras replied in kind, allowing Jehan’s deft fingers to pluck the mug from his hands.

The night air was still cold when Enjolras eventually left the sanctuary afforded by Jehan’s house but Enjolras’ heart felt brighter.

*

Thursday evenings were for the two of them. 

It hadn’t been laid out exactly, but more often than not it was Thursday evening that Grantaire would insist that he hadn’t seen Enjolras all week and that he’d steal Enjolras’ laptop and lock it away unless Enjolras would sit down for an evening. More often than not they ended up with a below-par takeaway, but once or twice the two of them had found themselves going out for a meal. Nothing overly fancy, but out and spending time together.

So by the time that Thursday evening rolls around, although Enjolras is unwillingly becoming accustomed to Grantaire’s absence, he still finds himself at something of a loss.

However, before Enjolras has time to consider the shape of his evening Joly corners him at the Musian, and what had begun as a discussion of the treatment of medical students on placement turned into sharing a bottle of wine and ordering cheap canapés.

Joly always a happy steady presence, as cheerful as Courfeyrac but more grounded. The friendship between Les Amis was something that Enjolras has always been grateful for. He knows that the others look to him as their leader, but he knows that it is the group dynamic that holds them together. It is Bahorel’s loud and often disruptive singing, initiated alone but soon often accompanied by Courfeyrac and Grantaire, it is Feuilly’s care over the welfare of his friends coming after the end of the length of his shifts at work. The group dynamic is made of Bossuet’s easy laughter and his ease of listening, whether it came to talking to Marius about the matters of the heart or sharing his coffee with Joly, despite the other man’s protestations about hygiene.

No, Joly is able to get on well with all of Les Amis, and Enjolras is grateful that it is just the two of them left from their group, sharing a bottle of wine and laughing over the tales of their friends.

On previous evenings, when the café had been filled with the over enthusiastic, laughing boys, there would be Bahorel charging for more drinks, polite but forceful. And he’s struck by the memory of a few weeks ago, when Grantaire had slung his arm over Enjolras’ shoulder mid-sentence and had interrupted them, teasing Joly and snagging Combeferre’s bottle of cheap beer.

“You’re very quiet Enjolras, is something troubling you?”

Enjolras shook the memory out of his head, and smiled at Joly, shaking his concern away.

Joly knew Enjolras well enough not to push his leader when it came to his personal life and instead raised his emptying glass to his lips. As though the action had alerted him to their absent companion he spoke again, with the glass still at his lips.

“Where’s Grantaire? I’ve not heard from him in days.”

Enjolras sighed, feeling the phantom Grantaire across his shoulders and smiling.

“He’s away, visiting family. In France. He’s back’s this weekend.”

The café is quiet around his words, and Joly is smiling again. There is little that doesn’t induce a smile in Joly, he can smile through sadness or through pain. Ultimately Joly can’t help but smile, his features betray his emotions, and Joly is naturally a happy person and his smile has reached his eyes, crinkling the lines around his cheeks.

“You miss him Enjolras, that’s all. You’re not ill.”

*

With the radio on and the papers laid out on his desk Enjolras’ flat did not seem empty for a Friday night, especially not when a light knock on the door has roused Enjolras from his seat.

Combeferre had raised his eyebrows above his glasses when Enjolras had let him in, and Combeferre’s presence was always welcome.

Enjolras cannot remember a time when he wasn’t friends with Combeferre, they had fitted together as children, and grown into their friendship throughout university and beyond. Enjolras took no qualms to Combeferre’s presence in his flat and didn’t even bat an eyelid when Combeferre opened up the fridge and took out a cooling bottle.

Combeferre nodded at the beer in his hand.

“This Grantaire’s?”

Enjolras hadn’t even realised that his kitchen was stocked for Grantaire, and yet the evidence was before his eyes.

Combeferre hadn’t waited for his answer, and Enjolras didn’t think that Grantaire would begrudge him. Grantaire didn’t begrudge much from anyone.

The radio was still playing faintly through the closed door of Enjolras’ bedroom, but it was still audible from the kitchen, where Enjolras and Combeferre were sitting.

“Are you well ‘Ferre?”

He hadn’t expected Combeferre’s visit. Combeferre as a figure was calm and collected and should Enjolras’ have been in trouble then Combeferre wouldn’t have arrived unannounced at his door with a grin.

“I’m always well Enjolras. I just thought that perhaps you wanted company this evening Enjolras?”

Enjolras felt his eyebrows knitting together, knowing that Combeferre was asking out of genuine care, as opposed to due to out of any sense of obligation.

“I was just settling down for an evening of work.”

Combeferre seemed satisfied with his answer, and lent back in Enjolras’ chair.

“Of course. How’s Grantaire?”

Enjolras wasn’t puzzled by Combeferre’s interest in Grantaire. However Enjolras’ growing relationship with Grantaire hadn’t been a topic of conversation between the two friends.

Enjolras stroked the rim of the glass before him, somewhat as a unconscious tick and hesitated before answering Combeferre, although the answer was not a complicated one.

“I’ve not spoken to him since he’s left. He doesn’t need to talk to me. He’d ring me if he wanted it.”

Combeferre actually laughed. In the years of knowing Combeferre the other man had never made him feel awkward in his association. Enjolras never felt that Combeferre was mocking him or disagreeing with him on a matter of conscious, and so Enjolras patiently listened for his friend’s advice.

“Enjolras, he doesn’t want to disturb you.”

Enjolras frowned, biting his lip and tucking his fingers further around his glass.

“Why would he think that?”

Combeferre’s smile continued to grow, and so Enjolras waited.

“Because you keep your relationship quiet Enjolras.”

The change in Combeferre from diligent friend to trusted advisors is a subtle one, and only on few occasions had Enjolras gaze managed to encompass it, and even now, when he is looking for it, it is only a small change. The straightening of his spine and the push of his glasses further up his nose. In concentrating on Combeferre’s movements he means to avoid thinking of Combeferre’s words.

“But-”

However Combeferre knows Enjolras almost better than he knows himself and he answered the unspoken question with ease.

“Oh, we all knew. All know. Did you really think that it was secret? We’ve all known before you did, except Marius, but Marius is still surprised by his own hair when it falls in his eyes. You’ve both been working towards this for years Enjolras.”

And while Jehan was brave, and Joly was loyal, it was Combeferre who was his guide.

And so it was Combeferre, his oldest and his dearest friend to whom he unburdened himself.

“I don’t think I’m ready, I’m concerned. I have to admit Combeferre, that I’m scared.”

Combeferre looked fractionally sober, processing Enjolras’ fears before he shook his head at his friend.

“What are you scared of, he loves you Enjolras.”

Combeferre spoke with an easy confidence, and Enjolras nodded once, turning his friend’s words over in his head.

Combeferre changed the conversation topic with ease, with as much enthusiasm for the regaling of Feuilly’s latest creation as the man himself would have enacted, and Enjolras was grateful for his friend’s tact.

The flat is still cold, and when Enjolras had bid farewell to Combeferre with this thanks, he is alone with his thoughts and the emptiness of his bed.

It’s the fact that Grantaire loves him that scares Enjolras.

Love is powerful.

*

Enjolras would have expected that there would be more people in the arrivals hall of a Saturday afternoon. It’s busy enough, Enjolras considered, with anxious parents waiting and lovers waiting for their absent partners, but it’s still quieter than Enjolras supposed that it would be. Of course, he can’t know the stories behind his fellow companions, all standing waiting for the electronic board to tell them that their visitors are finally home, but he can imagine. 

He can’t read people like Jehan or Combeferre can, but the majority of the people surrounding him have a nervous tilt to their stance that Enjolras can feel echoed in himself.

He’s not fidgeting; instead he’s standing awkwardly in the arrivals hall, in what could almost be considered to attention. Enjolras is able to stand alone in part of the community of longing of the arrivals hall. 

That morning, before the idea had been fully formed in his mind, Enjolras had looked up Grantaire’s flight. He’d had the information memorised before he’d really thought too much about whether it was a good idea, and because he wasn’t sure of himself he hadn’t told Combeferre or Courfeyrac in case they’d persuaded him to act logically.

Grantaire’s flight was set to arrive in the early afternoon, and Enjolras had arrived at noon, to be sure to give himself plenty of time to wait. And to possibly turn back, should the idea leave him as quickly as it had arrived.

Without the distraction of his iPod he stood with his hands rammed into his pockets, tracing the lining with his fingers.

He could have brought a sign, there are a few other people with signs for ‘Freddie: We’ve missed you’ and ‘Our Darling Little Chu-Chi Face’, and had Enjolras done it, it would have been something that Grantaire would have found amusing. But it wasn’t in Enjolras’ character and he hadn’t texted Grantaire, and he wasn’t expected to be here.

This could be too impulsive, Grantaire could have made plans.

This could be something _official_.

They are official though, they’ve not been secretive, and someone has to take the first step.

Grantaire’s always told him that while he’s a coward, that Enjolras is the brave one. Wouldn’t now be the time to do something to prove that?

And then Enjolras doesn’t have time to falter, because pressing through the gate, staring slightly vacantly at the small crowd is Grantaire.

Grantaire’s hair is sleep mussed, curling around his head and under his hat, unevenly pressed against the creases in his skin. He’d evidently been sleeping lent against something, most likely the window frame. Enjolras can imagine Grantaire staring at the retreating horizon until he’d fallen asleep. He wonders whether anyone had rolled their eyes at Grantaire’s snoring.

Grantaire’s using his old backpack, worn at the straps, Enjolras is surprised that it had lasted the journey. If Enjolras was a betting man then he would put money on how messily packed it would be, with clothes just shoved in only moments before having to leave for the flight. Sometimes Enjolras thinks that Grantaire only irons his clothes because Enjolras raises his eyebrows at the creases. The backpack is slung over one of Grantaire’s shoulders, and of course Grantaire wouldn’t focus on his posture. 

Grantaire looks tried.

Enjolras feels tired.

Grantaire isn’t looking for him, hasn’t even conceived the idea that Enjolras could be here for him and Enjolras could imagine him passing straight past him in his haze to leave the airport.

So he steps forward as Grantaire is walking towards the wide doorway, and Grantaire looks at him unseeing, until realisation flits across his gaze and his mouth drops open.

“Oh.”

And then anything that Enjolras had planned to say flits from his mind instead he just drinks in the image of Grantaire in front of him, with the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his chin and the smile on his face. He looks like he’s been lit up from the inside. And suddenly Enjolras knows.

“I missed you.”

Grantaire is hesitant, his arms twitching, as though he wants to embrace Enjolras, and it is only the fact that Enjolras beats him with the movement that he doesn’t. 

Enjolras has his face buried in Grantaire’s hair, and arms around his waist, and he’s laughing as Grantaire presses his lips to his cheek and he feels so full. He almost doesn’t want to name what he’s full of, because the idea of love is so fresh in his heart that it almost scares him, but Grantaire’s arms are around his shoulders and if he whispers three words into Grantaire’s collar bone then that is a secret kept between his lips and Grantaire’s skin, at least for now.

When he rights himself, trying to pull the smile off his face and attempting to regain his composure, Grantaire is smiling at him, eyes wide and beaming and had he had to touch Grantaire this much before he’d left? Because Enjolras isn’t in control of his hands as they rise to frame Grantaire’s face.

The touch is light and delicate, and Enjolras strokes the bones of Grantaire’s blushing cheeks with his thumbs, before leaning in to kiss him.

He doesn’t care this this is all getting very ‘Love Actually’ and doesn’t care that this is happening in public.

“Home?”

He hopes that Grantaire understands what he’s offering with that one word, because he isn’t sure that he could explain it any other way. All he knows is that home is where Grantaire is, and he’d give him the spare key right now had he though to bring it with him. He’s never been impulsive, but it seems that Grantaire can twist anything, even Enjolras, to his will without even trying.

Grantaire has both of his hands entwined in the lapels of Enjolras’ coat, holding him close, and Enjolras can taste his smile between his lips.

“Yes.”

Grantaire presses forward, to kiss Enjolras again, and Enjolras can’t remember why they’ve not been doing this since a drunken Grantaire had sat down in his lap and starting playing with his hair, years ago. 

“Yes.”

The airport arrivals hall is busy and loud around them, but Grantaire doesn’t let go of Enjolras, and Enjolras follows his lead. The kiss bleeds into another, until they’re breathing the same air, touching reverently and smiling shyly. In the end they are knocked by a small child running for his father, and they laugh, pressing their foreheads together until Enjolras tugs at the backpack on Grantaire’s shoulder. Once he’s thrown it over his own shoulder, a stern glance had silenced Grantaire’s complaints; he reaches out his hand and after a fraction of a second Grantaire’s fingers are interlocking with his.

Grantaire raises their joined hands to his lips, and presses a kiss to Enjolras’ knuckles, and last week Enjolras would have laughed but now he smiles, and thinks of the words that he’s going to say, when they get home.

And it’s happy, but it’s not an ending.


End file.
